


Wolf at the Door

by RedLeaderfic



Category: Lucha Underground
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Guilt, Handling Things Well, Kayfabe Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6585685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLeaderfic/pseuds/RedLeaderfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vampiro doesn't like needing the pills. Episode tag for 2x11, "Bird of War."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf at the Door

Vampiro stares the bottle of pills sitting on his table, picks them up, puts them down again. The label reads “as needed” but the dose back at the Temple should carry him through to the next morning. It’s risky to take them more than once a day, he’ll start to build up a tolerance. It’s taken years to find something that works for him and he’s built up a lot of tolerances over the years. Rushing this one is dangerous.

None of that means he likes the pills. He doesn’t like needing them. Doesn’t like the way they make him feel, the way they flatten out his emotions. The way they make it easier to smile, to focus. 

He should sleep. Vampiro’s not twenty anymore, his days of staying up until the sun shames him for it are long past but his mind won’t go quiet. He closes his eyes and he’s back sitting in the ambulance. He’s watching Pentagón pour all of his will into not making a sound as the ambulance crawls through LA traffic, into keeping his breathing so slow and even the paramedics start worrying about shock. Pentagón glances up and Vampiro has to lean in close to hear him. _Mira. Mira. You see? I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid._

He keeps whispering that over and over, his composure not crumbling until the ambulance hits a pothole studded stretch a few blocks from the emergency room. Vampiro wants hold his hand but that’s the wrong impulse, he’s never been paternal with Pentagón and this would be the wrong time to start. Vampiro keeps his expression cold as he watches Pentagón struggle, not letting himself think about how much pain he’s seen his protégé endure with a smile. Just as the ambulance finally pulls in to the hospital Vampiro takes a calculated moment to put his hand on Pentagón’s shoulder. When Pentagón’s wide eyes manage to meet his again Vampiro gives him a single nod; he’s always been sparing with approval and for an instant that’s enough to chase the agony out of Pentagón’s eyes. Pentagón tries to speak again and Vampiro waves it away. _Don’t._

Vampiro doesn’t know what he was thinking, letting himself have this much power over someone. Who he thought he was. 

He doesn’t let that show. All Pentagón needs to know is that he’s done well. That his master saw him face this with zero fear.

Vampiro is afraid enough for the both of them.

_You did this._

Vampiro opens his eyes. He has the pill bottle clutched tight in one hand and doesn’t remember when that happened.

_Pentagón did what you taught him to do. He saw an opportunity and seized it without hesitation. You gave him no guidance otherwise._

And of course Vampiro hadn’t. Before last week he wouldn’t have believed there was anyone in the Temple Pentagón couldn’t beat. “I didn’t know what Matanza Cueto was.”

_Whose fault is that?_

Vampiro heaves himself out of the chair, abused knees creaking as he paces the room. There was a week between Aztec Warfare and Pentagón’s challenge, he should have used that time better. He’d felt something…off about Matanza during warfare, he should have trusted that instinct. “He hurt Pentagón early. That was never a match, Cueto never intended it to be a match. The official should have stopped it.” That’s the only silver lining to this, at least now they all know the officials can’t be trusted in matches against Matanza Cueto.

_Why didn’t you stop it?_

Vampiro’s been asking himself that since the moment it was over. He’d known something was wrong, he’d known it even before Pentagón tried to tell the official. He doesn’t know what kept him behind the table. He hadn’t wanted to make that choice for Pentagón, he thinks.

Vampiro hears something laugh at him in the empty room.

He paces faster, trying to push that doubt away. Pentagón would never have made that choice. He would fight until there was no air in his lungs, that mania was why Vampiro had chosen him in the first place. Vampiro himself had beaten him bloody with everything he could get his hands on and not once had he looked in Pentagón’s eyes and seen him consider quitting. Someone would have needed to stop him.

Someone should have stopped him.

There is the question of why he didn’t smear Dario Cueto’s face all over that bathroom wall. If a leashed dog bites there’s no point holding a grudge against the dog. Dario hadn’t even given him the respect of a convincing lie but Vampiro had swallowed that down and called his show anyway.

_Pentagón was brave. What are you? Weak. **Old.**_

Vampiro goes to splash some water on his face and stares into the mirror for several long minutes. He doesn’t like looking in mirrors. The reflection isn’t his anymore, he hasn’t seen himself looking back for a very long time. 

Usually he doesn’t. Vampiro sees the face in mirror grin at him, black and white paint forming a familiar skull. He touches his cheek and is almost surprised when there’s no white residue on his fingers. The image in the mirror doesn’t match the movement.

_Do you remember when we solved our problems with fire?_

Vampiro closes his eyes and this is good memory. Sometimes late at night he lives in this memory for a while, the heat of the flames and the terrified cries of the crowd as his enemy burned.

_We should burn it all down. We should do it tonight._

“No.”

_Take the can of gasoline down to that warehouse Dario Cuero calls a temple and watch it go up in flames._

“Not now.”

Vampiro feels the urge come on him again, heat rushing up and down his spine, and he punches the mirror with his bare fist. Blood drips down his hand to the tile floor and he centers himself on the pain, a dozen fractured faces staring him down through the mirror’s spiderweb cracks.

There. Now the reflection looks right.

Vampiro wraps up his hand and goes back into the living room. It’s hard to open the pill bottle one handed but once he manages it he pops two at once and settles back in the chair. He stares at the wall while he waits for the effects to hit, for the chemicals to make the room still and quiet again.

Even muted the heat stays seared into his spine and slowly spreads under his skin. 

The smile on his face is both his and not his.

“Not yet.”


End file.
